


Fuel and Fire

by zarahjoyce



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Enemies to Lovers, F/M, Fake Dating, IT'S SO FLUFFY, Like, Modern AU, More tropes to come in later chapters!!!, Panic Attacks, Sharing a Bed, Sharing a Room, Snark, Stuck in a closed space, idek, probably, tropefest
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-29
Updated: 2019-10-06
Packaged: 2020-07-25 14:56:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20027677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zarahjoyce/pseuds/zarahjoyce
Summary: "You see?" Sansa says, smiling now. "If you really have to have a room far away from me, seems like you need to move into a different hotel." As an afterthought she adds, "Or to anotherplanet.""Bet you'd just love that, wouldn't you?" Jon asks her."Loads,"she snarls.He takes a deep breath, all the while just looking at her.Truth be told Jon will give anything in the world to be able to just--just---Jon and Sansa, and all the tropes applicable to them.All. The. Tropes.





	1. Snark and Bark

**Author's Note:**

> for my Pinoy Jonsa fam. You guys rock!

One room.  
  
One. Fucking. Bed.  
  
That's all they're given. That's all there is to this hotel.  
  
One. Single. King-sized. Bed.  
  
In one. Single. Room.  
  
"There _has _to be some mistake," Jon says to the front desk, almost not recognizing his own tone of voice because of how... broken it sounded. "I'm sure Miss Stark and I made different reservations--"  
  
"_Obviously_," Sansa Stark drawls behind him, her voice dry as dust. She pushes past his place before the front desk to tell the hotel staff, "We need different rooms, as I'm sure you understand."  
  
"I'm sorry," the receptionist says, her expression apologetic. "Our system appeared to have glitched when you made your reservations, resulting to you having booked the exact same room at the exact same schedule--"  
  
"Then fix it!" Sansa snaps, crossing her arms. "Book him someplace else. I'll--"  
  
"Now hold on a minute," Jon cuts in, brows drawn together. "Why should _I_ move? I was there first."  
  
She rolls her eyes. "So what? I was given a key, too. Therefore,_ I_ also have a right to that room."  
  
He stares at her, his jaw clenched, almost tempted to give her hell for being so... for being _so_\--  
  
"You know what, I agree. Book me somewhere else." Jon gives the receptionist - Gilly - the widest smile his face can contort to. "A room as far away from Miss Stark, if you please."  
  
Sansa sniffs and looks pointedly away from him.  
  
"I'm sorry," Gilly tells them again, and to her credit she sounds like she really _is_. "But we're already fully booked. I can't transfer you, Mr. Snow, even if I want to."  
  
"You see?" Sansa says, smiling now. "If you really have to have a room far away from me, seems like you need to move into a different hotel." As an afterthought she adds, "Or to another _planet_."  
  
"Bet you'd just love that, wouldn't you?" Jon asks her.  
  
"_Loads_," she snarls.  
  
He takes a deep breath, all the while just _looking _at her.  
  
Truth be told Jon will give anything in the world to be able to just-- just--  
  
"I will... have to advice against that, Mr. Snow," Gilly says, grimacing. "You see, with the convention being tomorrow, finding another hotel at this hour is... very much next to impossible."  
  
For a moment Jon just stares at her, his mouth agape.  
  
This isn't happening.  
  
This can_not_ be happening.  
  
"Well what would you suggest I do, then?" Jon asks, trying his damnedest to keep his voice from betraying his frustration.   
  
Gilly bites her lip, her gaze jumping from him to Sansa then back again. "If I may be so bold," she starts. "You two seem to know each other well, so I'm thinking--"  
  
"No!" Sansa cuts in, her tone unnaturally high.  
  
It takes Jon a millisecond later to realize: "You're suggesting _I sleep with her?_"  
  
Sansa glances at him and comments, "No need to sound so disgusted with the idea, Snow."  
  
"Stark--"  
  
"It's a King-sized bed," Gilly says, blissfully unaware of the horrors her innocent suggestion is awakening in him. "It can comfortably hold two people lying down side-by-side--"  
  
"You do realize we can sue this hotel for this inconvenience, don't you?" Sansa asks point-blank. "You're forcing us to accept this... this _compromise _brought on by your incompetence--"   
  
"Oh, but system glitches are _beyond _our capabilities or competencies, Miss Stark," Gilly says, straightening her back and pursing her lips. "And no one is forcing you to do _anything_. On one hand, I was talking to Mr. Snow. On the other hand, I was merely suggesting how we can go around this limitation of having just one room for the two of you, taking into consideration the reason for your reservations in the first place." She gives Sansa a wide smile.   
  
Jon disguises his chuckle by way of a cough, which Sansa no doubt realized is fake as all fuck.  
  
Damn. It's official; he likes this Gilly.   
  
Sansa, meanwhile, obviously _doesn't_. "You know what? This is no longer a problem for me. Do whatever the hell you want, Snow, I don't care. I'm going back to _my _room. Good luck, godspeed, _whatever_." And with that, she turns on her heel and leaves for the elevator.  
  
After she's gone Gilly asks him, "Is she always like that? Like she has a stick up her--"  
  
"_Thank you_, Miss Gilly," he says, pointedly cutting her off. Jon shoves his hands in his pockets. "I guess I'll just-- have a look around for now, see if there are any vacant rooms somewhere else."  
  
"I'm really sorry," she tells him.   
  
He nods at her and takes off.  
  
A few fucking _hours _of wandering aimlessly around, however, yields him the result Gilly already told him--  
  
All the nearby hotels? Hostels? Bedspaces? Rooms for rent?  
  
All fully booked.  
  
Leaving Jon Snow fucked as-- well, _fuck._  
  
He goes back to Dragonstone Hotel, thinking that he _at least_ needs to eat his dinner first - all the while planning how the hell he's supposed to get through the night without a hotel room.  
  
Jon takes his phone out, fully intending to call his assistant, Sam, and task him with the gargantuan job of booking him somewhere--  
  
\--when his hotel key card slides out his pocket, landing noiselessly on the carpeted floor beside his left foot.   
  
_"So what? I was given a key, too. Therefore,_ I _also have a right to that room."_  
  
Jon picks up the hotel key card, contemplating... contemplating... contemplating--  
  
Ah, screw it.  
  
By Sansa Stark's own logic, he too has a claim to that room by virtue of him having a key card in the first place.  
  
Which means...  
  
He has a room in this hotel after all.


	2. There was only ONE BED

It takes him approximately five minutes to come up to his hotel room.  
  
Or-- _t__heir _hotel room, actually.  
  
Jon grimaces.  
  
Truth be told there _are _worse things than sharing a room with a woman. Especially a woman as gorgeous as _Miss Sansa Stark_.   
  
Except that woman _is _Miss Sansa Stark and that... complicate things. Mostly because she _hates him_ for some reason.  
  
He sighs, takes out the hotel key card - and then decides to just knock first to announce his presence before entering the room.  
  
He _has _manners, after all.  
  
"Miss Stark?" Jon says after three knocks. He leans closer to the door, tries to listen to any sounds coming from the room. _Is _she in there? He can't tell. He knocks again. "Sansa?"  
  
No response.  
  
His shoulders sag as his exhaustion mounts. Jon wants nothing more than just take a shower and sleep, in his room - or in _any _room for that matter, be it occupied by one Sansa Stark or not. He knocks again, louder this time. _"Sansa?"_  
  
_Fuck_. _This_.  
  
Jon presses the card against the lock and breathes a sigh of relief when it beeps. He reaches forward, swings the door open--  
  
\--and is instantly met by the sight of Sansa Stark wearing a towel.   
  
Wearing _only _a towel.  
  
"What _the fuck_\--!"  
  
He turns so quickly he sees stars. "I'm sorry!" he says automatically, squeezing his eyes shut for good measure - and trying hard not to dwell on the image now permanently etched in his brain. "I didn't mean to, I _swear_\--"  
  
A door behind him shuts close; he can only assume it's the one leading to the bathroom. Jon pulls at his mouth. As if things between them aren't awful enough--!  
  
He glances behind him; finding the room empty, Jon gives in to his weariness and sinks into an available chair - while waiting for his doom.   
  
It comes a few seconds later.   
  
Like a whirlwind she gets out of the bathroom, clad now in the clothes he saw her wearing earlier. Except this time, her hair is no longer coiffed to perfection, but wet and plastered to her skull. Rather, her _angry-looking _skull. "I swear to god, Jon Snow, if you don't get the fuck out of here--"  
  
"I knocked!" he defends himself, rising to his feet. He gestures at the door. "I _knocked_, okay? So loudly I almost broke down the door. It's not my fault you--"  
  
"I was taking a bath, you utter moron--"  
  
"And I was supposed to know that _how?_" Jon demands. "For all I know you could have been, I don't know, out on a date or--"  
  
"That," Sansa seethes, "is _none of your concern_."  
  
"_Obviously!_" he responds, pulling at his mouth again. He takes a deep breath to calm himself down, and in a more moderate tone he says, "Look. I was just explaining _why_ I came in, okay? I did all I can to make sure that no one's in here before I did, and _you _should at least realize that."  
  
She stares at him, her brows drawn together - as if gauging the sincerity of his words. Then, "Why are you even here?" she asks. "Weren't you looking for a room as far away from me as possible?"  
  
"Believe me, I checked. Apparently such a room doesn't exist." Pause. "At least, not until this convention is through."   
  
Sansa taps her foot. "And that's my problem _how?_"  
  
And just like that, his temper shoots up again. Despite all odds Jon manages to grin at her. "Actually, it's not. Which is why I'm here, in _my _room--"  
  
"Like _hell _it's--"  
  
"What's your claim to this room again? Because you have a key? Guess what. So do I." He steps closer to her, waving the key card he holds to her face.   
  
She swats it away. "You are the most despicable person I've _ever _met, Jon Snow."  
  
Jon laughs. He heads to the bathroom and says over his shoulder, "That's a shame. You must have not met a lot of people, then."

* * *

  
  
So. Sansa Stark has clearly made the bathroom hers, with the number of... _girly _products strewn about.   
  
None of which he picked up or examined or thought about being put on her person. _No,_ thank you.   
  
They did make the bathroom... fruity-smelling? Like... lemons and strawberries. Which, he admits, is not at all unpleasant.   
  
Jon makes sure that he is appropriately dressed when he steps out of the bathroom. While he often sleeps in his boxer shorts, this time he decides to wear his shirt and jogger pants even if they make him feel overdressed for bed and slightly uncomfortable. He has a feeling Sansa will find a way to smother him in his sleep otherwise - and he's not _completely _an utter moron to not realize that.   
  
He looks round the room. And to his eternal frustration, _of course_ there's no sofa or even a long chair he can use to sleep on.  
  
The alternative, _of course_, is to sleep on the floor.  
  
The cold, thinly-carpeted, smelly-looking floor.  
  
Yes. Of _fucking _course. What better way to make this entire experience worse than to get a backache out of it, right?  
  
Slowly, he makes his way to the bedroom. If he can just get some pillows or extra blanket from it, then all will be-- well not good, obviously. But it'll be... _something_.   
  
He opens the door, only to find a human-shaped lump lying at the very edge of the left side of the bed.  
  
_This is ridiculous._   
  
Just as he's supposed to tell her to move else she falls, Sansa removes the blanket from her head to tell him, "_This _is your side of the bed." She pats the right side for emphasis.  
  
_...what._ "I'm... sorry?"  
  
She huffs and sits up. "I've decided that, since we're already sharing this room, we might as well share the bed, too."  
  
_Oh god._ Jon pinches the bridge of his nose. "And when you were deciding that," he starts, "you never once considered how... _improper _that might be?"  
  
She rolls her eyes. "_God_, what are you, living in the 1800s? It's perfectly all right for a man and a woman to sleep on one bed - provided that the man is _not _a raging pervert."  
  
"And women can't be pervert, can they? How sexist of you." He grins.   
  
Sansa curls her lip and dives back to lie down again, dragging the covers up her head.  
  
End of conversation, then.  
  
Jon scratches his nape. Feeling tired beyond reason, he decides to just throw caution to the wind and climbs up the right side of the bed.   
  
And proceeds to lie down as still and as rigid as humanly possible.  
  
"Just so you know," Sansa says from under the blanket fort she's made for herself, "if you ever touch me in any way, I will _not _hesitate to murder you."  
  
"Sure," he replies, closing his eyes and letting sleep claim him. "Whatever you say, Stark."

* * *

  
  
When dawn comes bright and early the next day, Jon finds himself awakening to feel a certain weight bearing down his chest.   
  
And thighs.  
  
He opens his eyes, only to find--  
  
The weight on his chest? A crown of red hair.  
  
The weight on his thighs? A long leg thrown over them.  
  
He ceases breathing that very moment.  
  
Oh.  
  
Fucking.  
  
_Shit_.


	3. As if Things Weren't Bad Enough

So obviously, Jon _has _a choice here.  
  
Either he wakes up Sansa as gently yet as quick as he can, thereby resulting to an impasse where she ends up accusing him of being a pervert and/or murdering him even though _she's _the one all up in his business, or--  
  
\--he waits for her to wake up, thereby resulting to an impasse where she ends up accusing him of being a pervert and/or murdering him even though _she's _the one all up in his business.   
  
It's a lose-lose situation either way.   
  
And isn't _that _just a great fantastic way to start the morning.  
  
He glances down again. Sansa's somehow covering most of his body with her own, and he can't help but notice that she's warm - _so _warm - and that she smells good - _so _fucking good.  
  
If this hadn't been so unexpected and awkward he'll admit that waking up with one prickly, beautiful Sansa Stark is turning out to be somewhat... _pleasant_.  
  
Except it _is _unexpected and awkward and obviously _not _a great addition to their already amicably antagonistic relationship.  
  
Then one of her hands starts moving. Jon stills, wondering if she's waking up, thinking how the hell he can get out of this encounter _alive_\--  
  
\--when all of a sudden it sneaks up under his shirt, coming to rest on his chest - just above his undoubtedly fast-beating heart.  
  
Her leg then shifts over his thighs, coming to rest higher than before, seemingly pulling him closer to her warmth.  
  
"Hm," she sighs audibly, as if she's just found a more comfortable position and is currently reveling in it.   
  
_Shit_.  
  
Whoever knew that the ferocious Sansa Stark is a great cuddler in bed?  
  
Certainly not Jon Snow, who doesn't quite know what to do with this information, thank you.  
  
He tries as best as he can not to stir, or even breathe - because if she moves her leg just a tad _higher _she'll undoubtedly come into contact with his--  
  
_Nope. Nope. Think sad thoughts, Jon Snow. Global warming! Corrupt government officials! The mother you never knew and would never love you!_  
  
...Okay, so now he's both sad _and _uncomfortable. Great.__  
  
Fortunately Sansa turns _away _from him at that moment, freeing him from her citrusy grasp.   
  
Jon counts to three before rising as slowly as he can, making sure that he won't be jostling her awake as he does.  
  
And just like that - he's free.  
  
He glances at the bed, finds Sansa seemingly curling into herself as if to ward off the cold. Jon grimaces, before reaching for the blankets at the foot of the bed and draping it all over her.  
  
Let her sleep more, he thinks, heading towards the bathroom.   
  
At least he won't _have _to talk to her yet - and that's _always _a good thing.  


* * *

  
  
Jon's already bathed and dressed and putting on his shoes when Sansa comes bursting out of the bedroom.  
  
"Morning," he calls out because he actually _has _manners, thank you.  
  
Unlike a certain Stark who only _grunts _at him in response before closing the bathroom door behind her.   
  
He raises his brows at her crudeness and finishes his task.  
  
At least he won't _have _to encounter her the rest of the day.   
  
Or even the rest of the _convention_, if he has anything to say about the matter - and he _does_.  
  
Jon takes out his phone, dials the number of his assistant, Sam - who answers after the third ring. "Hey, Jon. What's up?"  
  
"Find me another hotel," he barks, stepping out of the room and heading towards the elevator. He'd have preferred using the stairs but, given that he's at the thirtieth floor, just seems like an exercise in futility. "_Now_."

"Why? What's wrong with the one I booked you in?"  
  
After pressing the 'down' button Jon replies, "Where to begin? It's occupied to begin with--"  
  
"That's impossible," Sam scoffs.  
  
"Oh really?" Jon says. "Tell that to the _woman _I woke up with this morning!"  
  
\--wait, that came out wrong. And Sam basically confirms it when he asks, "Are you sure you didn't... you know... bring her up there yourself?" Then he pauses and, to his credit, adds, "No, wait, this is _you _we're talking about, Mr. I-Don't-Have-Time-For-Women."  
  
"I'll be offended if I don't already wholeheartedly agree with you." Jon glances up; the elevator's nearing his floor. Good. "I don't care if it's far from the venue. Rent me a car if you have to. Just--"  
  
"Fine, fine," Sam sighs. "I'll see what I can do."  
  
"Good. Call me once you do." He's about to end the conversation when Sam loudly calls his name. "What?"  
  
"Well, since I already have you on the line, Gendry Baratheon called up and wants to set up a meeting with--"  
  
They end up talking about business for a solid ten to fifteen minutes. Next thing Jon knows, there's another person standing behind him when the elevator finally dings and its doors open to let them in.  
  
"Don't forget, Sam. I need that room _today_."  
  
"I told you, I'm on it."  
  
"You better be." And Jon ends the call.  
  
The elevator doors close, and Jon takes a deep breath - only to frown slightly because the elevator sure smells a lot like--  
  
"So you're finally leaving _my _hotel room?"  
  
_...shit._   
  
Of course.  
  
Jon glances behind him just to make sure, and true enough, _Sansa Stark's_ the one now in the elevator with him.  
  
As if their encounters before aren't enough!

"You'll be glad to know that I'm _trying _to, at least," he replies, looking up and monitoring their very slow descent to the ground floor. Fuck it, why can't this thing be _any _faster? 

"_Good_," Sansa says, crossing her arms in front of her. "I wasn't able to sleep well last night, knowing that you're... _there_. On the bed with me."  
  
Jon shuts his eyes for a moment, trying to fight the memories of her warmth, her scent, her body against his-- "Which, may I remind you, was _your _idea in the first place--"  
  
"Only because you burst into my room without warning--"  
  
"I told you, I _knocked_\--"  
  
All of a sudden the light above them flickers a moment before the elevator itself shakes and screeches into a halt. It throws them both off-balance, resulting to Jon slamming against one side of the elevator and her on the other.  
  
"Are you okay?" he asks her, just after finding his feet again.   
  
Instead of answering she also asks, "W-What's going on?" Sansa looks around them in alarm before locking eyes with him.  
  
Shit. Shit.   
  
_Shit!_  
  
Fighting the first wave of rising panic in him, Jon glares at the seemingly unresponsive elevator panel and declares:

"Looks like we're stuck."


	4. Breathe. Just Breathe

_Of all the rotten luck,_ Jon thinks, approaching the panel and pressing the call button. "Hello?" he says, fighting to keep himself calm. "Is anyone there?"  
  
"Yes, this is maintenance."  
  
"The elevator just stopped." Which is stating the obvious, apparently. "What happened?"  
  
"We apologize for the inconvenience." To his credit though, he _did_ sound sorry. "There seems to be a slight malfunction on--"  
  
"When are you getting us out?" Sansa asks from behind Jon, and he has to admit he finds her composure at this stressing moment somewhat... admirable.  
  
"As soon as possible," says whoever is on the other line. "Please just hold on." Then comes a beep, signalling the end of the call.  
  
"Like we have a choice?" Jon mutters under his breath, folding his arms in front of him and shutting his eyes against the sight of the walls seemingly closing in on him the more he _looks _at them.  
_  
Breathe.  
  
Breathe.  
  
Breathe.  
  
_"Great, just great. Of all the rotten luck. Now I'm going to be late on the _first _day!" Sansa says in a low tone - though _of course_ he heard it, given the small enclosure they're currently in.  
  
He sneaks a glance at her, finding her fiddling with her phone. She places it on her ear, grimaces, then says. "There's no signal. Figures. _Fuck!_"  
  
Jon closes his eyes again, concentrates on calming his racing heart.   
  
_Breathe.  
  
Breathe.  
  
Breathe.  
  
_He pulls at his mouth and turns, resting his forehead on the wall - and breathes deeply again. This is a worse position to deal with his situation, he knows, but _anything's _better than having Sansa Stark realize what's going on with him. His hands are starting to sweat; he wipes them on his sleeve and tries to distract himself with thoughts of work - meetings he has scheduled, supplies and materials he needs to acquire, the current layout of the bookstore they're building over at Winterfell Avenue--  
  
Try as he might, though, the feeling of hands clawing at his neck can't be ignored, and now he's starting to breathe in short, sporadic bursts--  
  
"Hey. You okay?"_  
_  
_Yes. Just as soon as this is over, thank you. _Jon doesn't bother answering her, too busy fighting the anxiety that's threatening to choke him - if he lets it.  
  
"Snow." He feels a hand on his shoulder, pulling him gently, as if silently asking him to turn around. "Hey. Look at me. _Look _at me."  
  
At the authoritative tone he finds himself doing as she's ordered. Her eyes - an intense blue that's beautiful and brilliant in their own right - focus on his. "I can't believe I'm doing this," she says, more to herself than to him. Then she takes a deep breath and adds, "Okay. Okay. I'm going to take your hands in mine, all right?"  
  
He lets her. Even if he doesn't want to--  
  
\--oh, who's he even kidding, this very moment?  
  
"Anytime you want to pull away go on ahead, but it'll help knowing that you're not alone right now. So let's just-- let me help you," she says soothingly. "Just today. Right? Good. Okay, I want you to breathe with me, got it? Look at me and keep up with me."   
  
Jon looks at her mouth as she sets a breathing pace that he follows easily. Breathe in, breathe out. Breathe in, breathe out. Breathe in--  
  
The first few seconds are _hard_, as the panic's still threatening to consume him. But she was right; knowing that he's not alone at this moment - hearing her voice, seeing her face, squeezing her hands - helps him _fight _this attack for as long as he can.   
  
Apparently there's something good out of being stuck in the elevator with _Sansa Stark_, of all people, after all.  
  
And isn't _that _a grand revelation in itself.  
  
The elevator lights flicker again, and this time the most welcomed hum engulfs them - the sound of the elevators _finally _moving again.   
  
He looks around them, then at her - and sighs in relief. The thought that they can both walk away from this incident _safely _manages to relax him to a point that he can finally say that he's... _okay_.  
  
Sansa peers at him carefully. "Feeling better?"  
  
"Yes," he says, glancing at her mouth before looking up at her eyes again. He takes a breath, chasing away the final feelings of discomfort, before softly adding, "Thank you."  
  
She nods and finally pulls her hands free from his, and soon as she does he tucks his hands in his pockets. Jon clears his throat. "How did you--?"  
  
At her raised brows he continues, "--know. What to do?"  
  
Sansa shrugs. "One of my brothers suffers from panic attacks constantly," she replies, playing with the strap of her bag. "It's second nature by now." Pause. "I didn't know I needed to use it on _you_, though."  
  
He looks up; they're now on the 6th floor. "Is it really _that _surprising?"  
  
"That the owner of a mighty corporate giant like _you _have a weakness?" she asks, making the words sound like an insult somehow. "Gee, now that you mentioned it--"  
  
Jon frowns. "That's not--"  
  
Finally the elevator dings, signalling that they've arrived at the Ground Floor. Before the doors open however, Sansa lets out a loud breath, turns to him, and pokes his chest with a meaningful, "Just remember: _you owe me_," before marching right out soon as the path is clear.  
  
He rubs his chest with a grimace.  
  
Of course, _that _much was obvious, even without her saying it.  
  
She _did _save his life after all.

* * *

  
  
He arrives at the venue mere moments after she does. Not that he's keeping watch of her movements, but it's hard _not _tolook at her when she's obviously hurrying _away _from him the entire time they made their way to the convention center just across Dragonstone Hotel.   
  
And, as long as he's being honest, it's also hard _not _to look at her given how her hair seemingly gleamed like fire under the bright morning sun.  
  
Certainly _not _something he can be blamed for.   
  
_Nooope.  
_  
After telling himself _not _to think about Sansa Stark for the rest of the day, Jon then picks up a leaflet containing the program of today's activities. Apparently that short stint of being stuck in the elevator hasn't impacted his schedule much; in fact, there's still a good fifteen minutes left before the first leg of the program starts. That gives him some time to peruse around the center and take note of who's who, and who's stationed _where _\- particularly those he'd want to talk to more. For business opportunities, certainly.  
  
Not that he needed to, truth be told. Dany once told him that chasing publishers and authors like this is an activity beneath their station as _Targaryens.  
_  
Then again, not like she stopped him from attending this activity.  
  
Not like she _can_, at any rate.  
  
Jon looks around him. He's already spotted child prodigy Lyanna Mormont somewhere to his left, ever accompanied by her manager Jorah Mormont. He makes a mental note to talk to the guy when he sees what he came here for:  
  
Ramsay Bolton.  
  
Author of the current fad, fly-off-the-bookshelves _Vengeance Fangs_ series.  
  
He straightens himself, mentally running over the list of offers he can give Bolton when _someone _collides against him, grabs his hand, and--

"What the--"

"Just follow my lead, _please_."  
  
Wouldn't anyone know it, but the usually immaculate Sansa Stark looks absolutely _harassed _as she holds his hand in a death-like grip. Then she turns to face him and says, "Whatever you do, just-- don't tell him the truth."  
  
Jon grimaces. "Tell _who _what--"  
  
"_There _you are!"  
  
He can feel Sansa _steeling _herself beside him even as she looks gracefully at the greeter and says, "Joffrey! Hello. I didn't see you there." Then she places a hand on Jon's chest and giggles, "I was busy talking to my, erm, _fiance_, you see."  
  
...fiance?  
  
Right.  
  
_Of _fucking _course._


	5. Aaaand action!

All Jon can do now is stare at Sansa like she's lost her head.

And really, with the way she's clinging to him - like she's entirely fused to his side, instead of actively spewing acid at him - it seems like she certainly _has_.

"Fiance?" Joffrey Baratheon says, looking at her with raised brows - before transferring that same look to Jon.

"Yes," Sansa replies quickly before Jon can respond, squeezing his hand _oh so tightly_ for good measure. "We were just _so_engrossed in each other's presence, you see. Right, honey?"

Oh, so it's _his _turn to speak now?

_Great._

Granted, he still has no idea what the hell was going on, but for _Sansa Stark_ to act like she loved _him _dearly in public - and not just the very thought of him _dead _\- something _must _be awfully wrong.

And he's certain the very reason for her antics stands before them now.

"--Right." Jon pushes the word past his own mouth with as much enthusiasm as a man saying _yes _to a date with a guillotine. "Sure."

She lets out a laugh so high and nasally he's sure as hell it's fake. "Jon, you're so funny! Really. _So_. Funny."

"Yes," Joffrey drawls, clasping his hands behind his back. He grins in his shitty and unsettling manner and fuck it, Jon _hates _when he does it. "It _is _rather funny, wouldn't you say, Snow? Especially since none of these developments were _ever _mentioned during our Board Meetings." 

And, for precisely three seconds, none of them speaks.

"Your... Board Meetings?" Sansa repeats faintly, glancing from Joffrey to Jon now. "As in you both attend them? At the same time?"

"Oh, you didn't know?" Joffrey asks, regarding her with a surprised expression on his punchable face. "Didn't you know that your fiance and I work together? How incredibly... _odd." _He smirks at her in an entirely condescending way that's so _Baratheon_ it sets Jon's teeth on edge. 

"--um," she mutters, looking highly uncomfortable now.

And really, this can be his coup de grâce.

Jon can _just _come out in the open and say that Sansa was kidding - or probably hallucinating, whichever is more fitting in this situation. He can tell Joffrey that she's drank something potent on the way here, hence the string of nonsense she's babbling - none of which relates to or concerns him, in the slightest.

And yet--

_Just follow my lead._

_Please_.

He exhales slowly and decides to do something he just _knows _he'll end up regretting sooner than later.

"Baratheon Books are among our major subsidiaries, _honey,_" Jon tells Sansa, noting how her hand absolutely feels limp in his. He glances at Joffrey. "Though her not knowing about our work together is more _my _fault than hers, Baratheon. We never talk about business much, after all." He turns to her again and tucks a strand of her hair behind one ear - in a manner that he hopes screams 'blatant intimacy' - and smiles. "Not if we can avoid it."

Sansa visibly swallows as she looks at his mouth - but to her credit she quickly recovers her poise. She places one hand on his chest and giggles. "And we do avoid it. A _lot_. I'm sure _you _understand, Joffrey, with how... _loving _you are." She hesitates a millisecond before moving to kiss the very air next to Jon's ear, and he can't help the shiver that runs along his skin as she does. 

Yeah, this was really _not _how he pictured his morning turning out.

"How utterly _charming_," Joffrey says, but now there's a bite both to his tone and the sharpness of his expression. "Still. I'm disappointed that the Board Members were not made aware of this development in your personal life, Snow. I would have presumed _Daenerys _would have been extremely proud of the fact that the succession to the Emporium is now--"

"Leave her out of this," Jon spits. 

Joffrey raises a brow.

_Fuck._

Jon tries again, opting for a lighter tone this time. "What makes you think Dany'll concern herself with my personal life, anyway? Sansa and I are merely dating. We're not getting married. _Yet."_ He pats Sansa's hand fondly and says to Joffrey, "Though given _your _high interest in our relationship, Baratheon, I'll be sure to invite you when we _do _tie the knot." Not looking away from him, Jon places a hand at the small of her back and adds, "Now if you'll excuse us, we have much to do today - as I'm sure you do, too." He then steers Sansa away before Joffrey can utter another vile word.

And, just as they've turned right around a corner, Sansa pulls away from him as if burned. "Ugh, I hate, hate, _hate _that man." She drags a hand through her hair. "Why didn't I even realize that I'll probably see him here? Ugh, stupid, _stupid_\--"

Jon crosses his arms, not knowing what to do except witness her berating herself. Really, this whole trip has just been one giant mess after the other - apparently not just for him, but for her, too.

And isn't that a sad - albeit comforting - thought. 

Sansa exhales loudly and turns to look at him, as though realizing belatedly that he was _still there. _She closes her eyes, exhales again, and says through gritted teeth, "You're... probably wondering what my whole business is with Joffrey Baratheon."

He shrugs. "Well, the whole hand-holding thing - not to mention the _lying _\- kind of made me curious, I have to admit." 

_"God,"_ she mutters, coloring a bit. "I just... I panicked, okay? Seeing him here. And you were-- you know, just _there_, and I thought... well, I helped you in the elevator, right? And--and you owe me. So--"  
  
"Sansa."   
  
She pauses from her tirade and just _looks _at him with wary eyes.  
  
"Did he--" How should he even phrase this? "Did he hurt you?"   
  
Funny how asking the question out loud made him feel-- well, _something_. Indignation, perhaps? Just the tiniest bit of anger, on her behalf?   
  
She crosses her arms and looks away.  
  
Belatedly he realizes that she has no intention of answering him - rightfully so, as maybe _that _was just a tad too personal question to ask anyhow. Still... "You know," he says slowly, "I think - as your fiance - I _have _the right to know the truth."  
  
And she turns to him with wide eyes, her mouth forming an angry line--  
  
\--except he chuckles to show her that he isn't _at all_ serious about that last bit. "Sorry," he says, shaking his head. "Can't help it. This whole thing is just _so--"_  
  
"--ridiculous?" she finishes, the corners of her lips turning upwards now, despite herself.   
  
"That," he agrees, "and _complicated_." Jon pauses a bit before plunging on with the truth: "I hate to point out the obvious, but the convention is three days and Baratheon--"  
  
"--will most likely be here the whole time," Sansa says, blanching now as she comes to the unfortunate realization a few moments _after_. _"Fuck!"_  
  
Jon doesn't say anything, merely waits for her to say something else as otherwise--  
  
\--they are truly and royally fucked, indeed.


End file.
